Roid Rage

I wasn't going to post about this because it's rather, well, personal.

AHAHAHAHA! Like posting about the size of my kid's poop isn't. Of course, he's a defenseless child, trusting that his Mommy would never do anything that could embarrass him. SUCKAH! Kidding! I love my boy. And some day when he is my age he will find it all amusing. I hope. If he's still speaking to me.

At any rate, I have myself a little problem. It's a small issue that has taken on great importance. In fact, one might say it's become a ginormous pain in the ass.

There were a lot of things that hurt during and after my 20-miler Saturday. I was running with a new insole for my crazily deformed foot, but didn't put an insole in my left shoe, so I was probably a bit unbalanced (save the snickering, please). That in turn threw off my gait. My left calf was cramping pretty badly. I had a side-stitch for a few miles. My hip flexors were so sore that every step was painful.

I'm sure I looked like an extra from the Night of the Living Dead as I hobbled the last four miles.

I was sore all day. My feet ached. My legs were stiff. And guess what? That was like a tiny gnat when you get to the bottom of what was most excrutiating, a certain (back)side benefit.

It is this: A hemorrhoid. An itchy, painful external hemorrhoid. Something I haven't had since giving birth. Ever get knifed in the butt? Me neither, but I bet this feels worse.

And it's not like I can ask my running coaches (both men) about my latest malady.

Googling it, quite frankly, was terrifying. I searched for "hemorrhoid" and "marathon" and got to read all kinds of icky stories from people with bleeding and runners trots, where you have to poop every few miles. Of course, after reading what some of these people go through, I was feeling a tad bit better. But only emotionally. Not physically.

I seriously have a bad case of roid rage. There is nothing quite like the feeling of a hot poker up the rump to make one not quite so tolerant toward one's fellow man (or kids or dogs or the idiot in the parking lot who just cut me off).

My poor husband, having had no experience with said condition, had the kind of morbid curiousity that he usually reserves for identifying things at the back of the refridgerator or looking at the dogs' barf to see which one ate the plastic horse.

He had to look. His retinas are now permanently imprinted. But at least now he sees I really do have some extra junk in my trunk.